Free The Memory of Trees by F. G. Cottam Page B

seclusion in the building. Outside, the promenade was empty of pedestrians. Beyond the opaque glass the river swam brown and swollen with the rain that had been falling without pause since early the previous evening.
    Bespoke cakes iced by hand were on display under Perspex domes. Most of the juices in their refrigerated cabinet racks were organic. The coffee was fairtrade. John knew his clientele.
    ‘Working on anything much, Tom?’
    And so Curtis told him about Pembrokeshire. He didn’t name his employer, was vague about the location and only hinted at the scale of the project, but described something of the wilderness bordered by the sea which he had briefly explored and would work on there.
    ‘I think I‘ve only been to Wales once, to Anglesey as a kid,’ John said. ‘I was about seven. Don’t remember it at all.’
    ‘It’s not much like England. It’s remote, all a bit strange. It has its own character.’
    John laughed. ‘I don’t know. One Butlins camp’s much the same as another. Same climate, anyway. I remember it rained.’
    ‘This place is completely wild. I think there might be some folklore attached to the region, or to particular spots there. I haven’t gone into it. Not yet, anyway. I’ve only been on the job four days. But it’s intriguing.’
    John fixed himself a cappuccino and joined Curtis at his table. He picked two lumps of brown sugar from a small bowl heaped with them and stirred. He said, ‘Couldn’t help you with any of that. But I know a man who might be able to.’
    Curtis smiled. John wasn’t a creature of the Internet age. He was unaware that anyone with a laptop and broadband could access information about virtually anything just by tapping a couple of key words into Google. He wasn’t stupid. He was just old school when it came to arcane knowledge. He was the sort who got on the butcher’s bike he rode, pedalled off to a reference library and looked up his facts about fish and fowl in a book.
    ‘Chap who comes in here mid-afternoon most weekdays,’ he said, ‘semi-retired professor. He does a bit of lecturing at Kingston University and he’s from here originally, but he was at Oxford when he worked full-time. He was chair of something.’
    ‘Really? Chair of what?’
    ‘Blowed if I can remember.’
    ‘It might be geology, John. It might be astro-physics.’
    ‘It’s something to do with history, because he knows about paganism and Celtic myths, all that stuff.’
    ‘How do you know he does?’
    ‘You know how I know. I talk to my customers. I was talking to him only yesterday about Stonehenge.’
    ‘Know much about Stonehenge?’
    ‘I didn’t. I do now. He certainly does.’ John stood. ‘Andrew Carrington,’ he said.
    ‘Professor Carrington to you,’ Curtis said. He drained his cup.
    ‘I’ve got his card behind the counter, Tom. Give him a ring.’
    ‘I can’t cold-call an elderly academic and then interrogate him because I’m curious about some remote Welsh wilderness.’
    ‘Yes, you can. He likes talking. When I see him this afternoon, I’ll tell him to expect you to call.’
    It was how John operated. He made connections. To him, the world was a genial, intimate place without much decorum beyond a please and a thank you when you ordered your food at the counter. It had made his café a very popular place with its regular clientele.
    Curtis tucked the card into his wallet, thinking it was an authority in family law he really needed to be recommended and not some elderly bloke inclined to bang on about Neolithic Britain. He hefted the bag, which was canvas and wet and quite heavy with the weight of the stacks of notes it held, secure in their rubber bands. He’d bank the money in Surbiton on his way to the station. It was just after half nine in the morning and the shops and offices on Victoria Street would be open for business now.
    Two hours later he was about to leave his flat in Lambeth, having packed everything he thought he might need.